Installation 31: Looking For Hemingway previous
On the last day of Phoebe's mandatory substance abuse counseling, Holly Jean brought in enormous sheets of paper and a bucket of markers.
“Lie down on the paper in a relaxed pose,” Holly Jean said. “But spread your arms and legs.”
“That sounds familiar,” Karrie said, while glaring at Phillip across the room. While many barriers had been broken during the sessions with Holly Jean (Karrie was finally able to put her disastrous first marriage, which began in Las Vegas and lasted only three weeks, behind her) Karrie and Phillip had not been able to reconcile their relationship.
“I'm going to trace you,” Holly Jean said. “And then you're going to fill in your outline with drawings, quotes and messages for yourself. Inspiration to keep you on the right path.”
When Holly Jean got to Phoebe, Phoebe was sitting on the paper, not lying down.
“What's the matter?” Holly Jean asked.
“Nothing,” Phoebe said. “I just don't think I need inspirational messages written in an outline of my body.”
“Phoebe, this is the last exercise of the class,” Holly Jean said. “You don't want to fail, do you? If you fail the class, you have to take it over.”
Phoebe lay down. When Holly Jean finished tracing, Phoebe got up and moved to the side of the paper. The outlined body looked a bit blobbish.
“This is because I stopped taking pilates,” Phoebe explained. “And because maybe my shirt is bulky.”
“Let's think of some messages you can send to yourself,” Holly Jean said. “What do you want to say?”
“You can lose five pounds in two weeks?”
“How about 'You can test your limits,'” Holly Jean said. “How about, 'You can say no?'”
“How about 'Soon this will all be over?'”
Holly Jean wrinkled her nose. “I think I prefer, “This too shall pass.'”
Phoebe set to work with her markers.
Coming out of the conference room at the end of the day, Phoebe was loaded down with her body outline, various craft projects and a certificate stating that Phoebe Persons had successfully completed Substance Abuse Counseling at The Museum. Holly Jean also handed out coupons for 15% off framing for the certificates at a local frame shop.
Phoebe stopped to throw the coupon in the trash and when she started walking again, the head portion of her body outline flipped over her face, obscuring her view. She walked right into Karl.
“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said.
“It's OK,” Karl said and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I haven't seen you around much.”
“I've been busy,” Phoebe said. “You know, working, exercising, kicking my nonexistent drug habit...”
“I heard about that,” Karl said.
They both looked at the ground. They hadn't spoken to each other since the afternoon Karl came to her apartment and ended up staying for a lunch of hot dogs, potato chips and apple juice.
“Listen,” Karl said.
“You must think I'm the biggest loser,” Phoebe said.
“No, I don't,” he said. “Do you want to go out for lunch sometime?”
“Oh,” Phoebe said. “Lunch.”
“Just, I don't know, get some burritos? Fried rice?”
“Something ethnic...”
“Or not. I mean, I like chicken, too.”
“No, I didn't mean... I enjoy a wide variety of ethnic foods.”
“So,” Karl stammered. “Thursday?”
“If I'm not busy,” Phoebe said and shifted the life-size cut-out so it wasn't obscuring half her face. Scrawled inside the head was the inspirational message, “Take one day at a time!”
“Yeah,” Karl said. “If you're not busy.”
It turned out Phoebe was not busy. She wore her best skirt and an adorable cardigan. She put her hair up and then carefully pulled certain wisps down to give herself a carelessly beautiful look. She wore a little blush and put on lipstick. By 11:45, she was restless at her desk.
“Why so fidgety?” Fern croaked from her corner of the room.
“No reason,” Phoebe said.
“Why are you all dressed up today?”
“No reason,” Phoebe said.
“I think we should hang this up,” Fern said, picking up part of Phoebe's cut-out, which she had stuffed on top of one of the filing cabinets.
“Just throw it out,” Phoebe said.
“No,” Fern said. “Having it out where you can see it will help you stay on program. I read an article in the newspaper that said that people who write down their goals and put them where they can see them are 95% more likely to reach them.”
“I'm not on any program,” Phoebe said. “That was all just bureaucratic bullshit. A bunch of smoke and mirrors to make them feel like they were doing something.”
Fern shuddered. “Don't let Carlotta hear you talk that way,” she said.
“Fern,” Phoebe said. “No offense or anything, but could you please fuck off?”
At this point, Karl entered the office. He wore a very nice pair of pants, a button down shirt and had gotten a haircut.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Don't you look spiffy,” Fern said. “I've seen you in the halls. You never look very good, sort of rumpled, but today you look nice. What's the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Phoebe said and grabbed her purse.
“Oh,” Fern said. “Are you two going on a date?”
“Lunch,” Karl said in what he hoped was a firm voice. “We're going to lunch.”
“Does James know about this?” Fern asked. “All laid up in his hospital bed and his woman is stepping out on him.”
“Fern,” Phoebe said. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Why don't we go?” Karl said.
“Yes,” Fern said. “Go ahead and take a long lunch while I stay here and work. No drugs or alcohol though.”
Fern waved good-bye as Karl escorted Phoebe out into the hall.
Karl took Phoebe to Baxter's for their lunch special of fried cheese curds and loose pork sandwiches.
“I thought we were having something ethnic?” Phoebe said.
“I thought you meant you didn't like ethnic...” Karl said.
“Who doesn't like ethnic? And who even says 'ethnic' anymore?”
“You said it the other day,” Karl pointed out.
Their server, a burly man with one good eye and the other a sightless, milky orb, threw two plastic baskets of food onto their table before walking back to the bar to blow his nose into a worn handkerchief. A couple cheese curds jumped from the basket onto Phoebe's lap and she gingerly placed them on the table.
“I would like a glass of water,” Phoebe said.
“I don't know if you want to drink the water here,” Karl said. “Better to have a beer.”
“If I have a beer within a five mile radius of The Museum,” Phoebe said. “I'm fired.”
Karl got up to get Phoebe a glass of water. He returned with a glass full of something that looked yellowish in cast.
“If you're anemic,” he joked. “This will cure it.”
“What kind of books do you like to read?” Phoebe asked.
“All kinds,” Karl said. “Do you mean fiction or nonfiction?”
“Fiction,” Phoebe said. “Who are some of your favorite authors?”
“Hemingway,” Karl said.
“Oh, Hemingway,” Phoebe said and wrinkled her nose.
“How can you not like Hemingway?” Karl said.
“It's just so... predictable for you to say that.”
“Yeah, because the guy was a great writer. Its not inconceivable that people will continue to like a great writer.”
“I thought this was a date,” Phoebe said. “And you brought me to a dump.”
“It's an adventure,” Karl said. “I like to be adventurous.”
“This is the kind of place Hemingway would have come to for lunch,” Phoebe said. “To prove he was one of the guys, not afraid to drink a little rust and eat something prepared by a man with too much mucus in his throat.”
“Yeah,” Karl said. “Maybe. But that's the point.”
They ate in silence.
Meanwhile, at The Museum, Fern was on a mission. She spread Phoebe's cut-out across her desk in order to smooth out the wrinkles with some heavy books. Then she discovered she was out of tape. She needed a fresh roll in order to hang it up behind Phoebe's desk before she got back.
She stopped into Carlotta's office.
“I have to go find some tape,” Fern said.
“Check the closets in the back hallway,” Carlotta said.
“I don't think there's any tape there,” Fern said. “Remember, I cleaned those closets out and labeled everything.”
“Not that back hallway,” Carlotta said. "The back back hallway.”
“Oh,” Fern said. “The hallway where it's very dark?”
Carlotta sighed. “I know there's a dozen rolls of tape back there and I don't feel like spending money on new tape just because you don't want to walk around in the dark.”
“I never said that,” Fern said. “I will walk around in the dark. It's my job. Anything for the job.”
Fern left. She went down to the back hallway, turned right and went all the way down to the back, back hallway. She could just see the closets lining the wall and wished she'd thought to bring a flashlight. She opened a door. Pitch black. She felt around. She felt all manner of objects – pointed, round, soft, sticky, papery. But nothing felt like a roll of tape. Blast that stupid cut-out! And blast Phoebe for always waiting for Fern to get the office supplies.
Just as she closed one closet door and was about to move on to another, someone pushed her from behind. She stumbled forward and fell face down, her palms against the tiled floor making a strange splat. Someone reached around her waist and pulled her up, trying to force something over her head. What was it? A bag?
She screamed as loud as she could. Still, it was only her and the shadowy person trying to put her head into what might be a pillowcase.
“I'm warning you,” she said. “I'm no James Trehorn. You're not going to take me without a fight.”
The figure said nothing but continued to struggle to get the bag over her head. She tugged at it, twisting her head this way and that until finally she broke the figure's hold and managed to flip around. She struggled up and bit down on the first thing she came into contact with - a strange mixture of softness, wetness and wool. Fern's messed-up, pointed, yellowed teeth dug in.
“FUCK!” the figure yelled and dropped Fern to the floor where she flopped like a fish dumped from an aquarium for a few seconds before righting herself and getting to her feet. She ran down the hallway, slipping and sliding on the tile, too scared to make a sound.
At Baxter's, Phoebe and Karl finished lunch. Karl excused himself from the table. Phoebe sat with arms folded, staring at the greasy paper that lined her lunch basket. The first notes of “You Got It” by Roy Orbison filled the restaurant and Karl reappeared.
“Want to dance?” he asked.
Phoebe looked around the nearly deserted bar. The one-eyed server watched “Jerry Springer” on mute.
“That's so Hemingway of you,” she said.
Karl shrugged and offered her his hand.
They danced. Karl twirled Phoebe around and reeled her back in while trying to maintain a very somber expression. Despite herself, Phoebe started to laugh. And then she started to have fun.